


Challenger

by Aithilin



Series: Make It a Triple [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chivalry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jousting, Knight!Nyx, M/M, Rivalry, Threesome - M/M/M, knight!Gladio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: The tournament was held every year to celebrate the Crown Prince's birthday. Gladio had it all worked out: he'd win the championship, impress his old friend and prince, and they'd figure out the rest as Shield and Prince. His plans did not prepare him for a challenger from Galahd.





	Challenger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzRaft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/gifts).



Regis had revived the tradition seventeen years ago. 

The tournament had started as a show of strength among the honoured, bannered guard that served the Crown of Lucis. Old traditions had been hard to break, and the king had learnt that everyone appreciated a good natured show of strength and skill throughout the year. Everyone clamoured their praise for the champions; and set the ordinary heroes among them skilled enough to serve in the Crownsguard on hard won pedestals. It had been opened later to more than just the Lucian Guard and bravest citizens vying for seats at the festival tables. It had been opened to more than just the odd, occasional Lucian milestone and holiday. 

But even opened to any who would test their strength and skill against the strongest of the Lucian champions, the tournament was— at its heart— a Lucian event. A sacred event to the crown, where the Shield proved their worth and the closest companions of the king showed their worth to the people. Where the invitations sent out to welcome challengers were more than just a challenge in turn; it was a boasting right of the kingdom. 

And at the heart of it, Gladiolus had learnt that it was the perfect opportunity to challenge his father and mentors under the prince’s curious eye. It was the perfect opportunity to show off; to earn his title as the prince’s own Shield.

The festival grounds were cleared once a year.

In honour of the Crown Prince’s birthday. 

The streamers in royal blacks and silvers and blues were tied and looped and draped around the fairgrounds once a year, days in advance. They danced in the summer breezes, lining the processional avenue from the Citadel steps to the green parks. 

Stalls and displays applied months before to reserve their spots; the pleas and applicants brought before the prince to decide which ones would be awarded the royal favours of the fair. When Noctis was younger, he would choose based on tastes and sounds and sights that he favoured— the avenues marked with his childish stamp of approval for treats and toys that were snatched up among the citizens of the city. Now older he listened carefully to his advisers, to trends and favours, and still grinned as he selected his favourite treats to showcase. 

And the guests arrived in the month before, once the tournament was opened for the world. Once the Lucians noted how many from Tenebrae and Cavaugh and Altissia would come to explore and trade and tour the Crown City. And once the gates were opened in the wake of the peace treaties that had been hard-forged between the nations. 

Gladio spent most of the year training. 

He spent most of the year laid out in the training yard, covered in dirt and grass and bruised as his father, as Cor, stood over him with an expectant look. He spent most of the year sliding across the polished stone floors of the Citadel training rooms, Ignis’ training daggers a rush and flurry of precise points of pain that wouldn’t blossom for days. He spent most of the year smiling at Noctis, as the prince struggled to keep up with him, laughing at the challenge as Gladio caught him before he could be injured. 

But now he was ready to compete. Properly. 

Not in the squire’s melee ring against the other cadets welcomed into the Crownsguard. Not in the tests if strength or feats of bravery that meant he would never be set against a real challenger. And not in the shows of control, as he rode his favourite chocobo through a test of precision and through feats to test the bird’s bravery. 

He folded his arms on the fence that lined the jousting ring and watched the royal colours be woven through the park’s trees and lights. He imagined the fresh dirt being kicked up by his chocobo as he rode, having practised the control and precision needed countless times at the royal stables. He imagined the lines of faces in the seats that were being prepared— all a blur save for one. 

The one that mattered. 

The one next to him, smiling as the summer insects droned on in the long afternoon.

“Are you signed up?” Noctis asked, seventeen and still scrawny despite their hours of practice together.

Gladio nodded, having heard rants for years from his prince at the cruelty of royalty not being allowed to compete for themselves. That’s what the champion was for. That’s what Gladio was for. “Still working on my banner, though. I just want to tweak a few things before they put them up.”

“So long as it’s not a Cup Noodle. I’m not going to have a Shield with that stupid banner.”

Gladio offered a smirk, and a shove to Noctis’ shoulder that sent him back a pace; “What’s wrong with Cup Noodle?”

“Where do I start?”

The Leonis banner was already up. Its champion’s ribbons of Lucian grey trailing in the warm summer winds, barely anchored by the royal seal tied to the ends. The black lion of Cor’s choosing— created, according to rumour, in under an hour when the man was told he had to participate in the the tradition— sat proud and shadowed along the display beneath the leafy trees. The first to appear. The first to be confirmed to be participating. 

Gladio could practically hear the “fine, go away” that would have been all the confirmation needed. 

More of the banners would be going up through the next few weeks, as combatants offered up their names. The familiar images would arrive first, of course— the Tenebraean unicorn of more recent years, the behemoth of Drautos’ house, the birds and beasts of the challengers— all fighting for attention next to the decorated, elevated image of Leonis. Gladio remembered the years spent like this, perched at the fence as they watched the challengers grow as the summer waned. As they planned for Gladio’s own entry, his plan to be the second one up there, right next to Leonis. Right across the arena from the retired Amicitia banner of his own father. 

“Fine, fine,” Gladio grumbled, rolling his shoulders as he straightened from his lean against the barrier. “I’m not going to embarrass you, brat.”

“You’d better not,” the road back to the Citadel would take them through the green parks and the small village of attractions. The lists of attractions and the promises of shows and events were already strung up, a month before the actual tournament started. 

They watched as the spaces were cleared, left open for the challengers to the champion that would arrive before the end of August. By the prince’s birthday, the line would stretch across the arenas; banners of bright colours and fantastical beasts that Noctis used to drag him down to view, small hands tugging him along with excited eyes pestering him to name all the newcomers who’d dare challenge his uncle. 

They watched, ready to return to the towers of the Citadel, as a new banner was set up next to Cor’s. The first name to respond to the invitation. 

Gladio had thought he would have been the first. He had planned to be right there, ready and proud, to carry on the Amicitia traditions. 

“Someone got in before you?” Noctis paused to wait for the revelation. “Think it’s Ravus?”

“I don’t know that one.”

The new banner was brighter than Cor’s. Bolder. A silver coeurl perched on a purple field, a strange curl of horn extended above the long and familiar silhouette of electric whiskers. And it rested easily in the place of honour that Gladio had planned to claim. 

“I kind of like it,” Noctis nudged Gladio with a grin.

The next day, first thing in the morning, Gladio dragged Noctis out for a run. Out to the grounds and the arena to see the new banners. To see his banner set up next to the stranger— the royal black Shield, with the Zu wings stretched behind it. He had planned it carefully, based the design on tradition. His father had used a hawk with the shield in it’s talons, his grandfather had a kestrel with the shield carried in its beak. He had taken the living hurricane for himself, to stretch its wings around the crowned shield. He was bolder, stronger. 

Noctis paused as he caught his breath, and grinned; “I like the new guy’s better.” 

Gladio had the rest of the summer to chase Noctis through the fairgrounds and training fields. 

The guests arrived just before the tournament started. In the rapid succession of chaotic days that led up to Noctis’ birthday. The opening ceremony, the first bouts of the tournament games, were always for Noctis. Regis reminded everyone in attendance that the festival was for his son, for his only son— and while all the honour and prestige went to the champion, Noctis was still the increasingly unwilling focus of attentions for the first few days. 

They would present themselves to king and prince in the cavernous throne room, an army’s worth of polished boots and royal uniforms echoing across the marble and stone. The Citadel pulsed with the expectations and anticipation of the guests and the citizens crowded into the galleries with the media. Everyone fighting to catch a glimpse of the prince’s reactions as he stood at his father’s side. 

Gladio had always stood at Noctis’ side for these things— the appearances and introductions, settled easily in place as Ignis leaned in to whisper names and banners and titles for the guests. He had always stood ready, even when he was young, stiff in the heavy uniform of his position, watching Noctis’ reactions more than the show of wealth and decorum from the visiting nobility. 

It was the strangers who had arrived first this year. The coeurl banners presented by the smallest gathering of attendants Gladio had ever seen. There were only five of them. No armour, no finery, having slipped through the city with no fanfare or welcome until they had presented themselves at the Citadel gates. They didn’t carry gifts for the prince, they barely acknowledged the Crownsguard stopping them at every checkpoint.

“Nyx Ulric,” one man announced as he stepped forward from the small band of travellers. Even from his position at Noctis’ side by the throne, he could see the chill in the man’s eyes, and the warmth in the confident smile. The man bowed, but never lowered his eyes. Never faltered his smile. Never relinquished his position in deference to the royal hosts before him. “Of Galahd.”

Gladio didn’t like him. And he knew he had an ally in Ignis when he heard Noctis’ oldest friend tut at the arrogant display.

He didn’t like the acknowledgement the man received from the king, or the way the gallery clamoured to get a better look. They had hosted warriors of Cavaugh before— from the wild expanse beyond their city walls, barely held at bay by the canyon that carved its way across the continent, gashing out a border they could defend. They had housed lords and politicians from Altissia, artists and fishermen more skilled with nets and spears than with arts of war. There had been all manner of men and women from Niflheim— personal challenges to the Lucian king, assassins slipped in when the borders were open. 

But Galahd had never attended before. Not that Gladio remembered. 

“Ulric?” Regis smiled through the surprise Gladio heard in his voice; “I believe I’m familiar with your father.”

“You should be,” Nyx spoke again, and Gladio sized him up as he approached the throne. As the men and women brought with him stood their ground a few paces before the steps; “He wasn’t happy when you broke our alliance.”

“No, I fear not.”

There was a hush in the room, whispered questions spreading through the gallery. Noctis looked to Ignis for clarification, and received a small shake of his adviser’s head in response. 

King Regis did not break alliances. He never wavered in his loyalties or promises.

Nyx offered up that bright smile again; “He’s let me come here to try to rebuild that friendship.”


End file.
